Page 64 of Tamed Enemy
I point to it with the cane. “I need that. Center stage.”
Antonov protests, but Rider cuts him off, saying, “Rules.” The Russian backs down.
The bench has a padded kneeler a few inches off the floor and a second, higher surface covered in the same black leather. Matching steel-studded cuffs dangle from the corners. I test their strength, tugging with both hands. They’ll do.
“On your knees,” I say to Kate.
The bench faces the back wall. She can close her eyes. Bite her lip. Pretend she and I are the only two people in the world, if she wants to.
But she says, “No. I want to see them. I want them to see.”
She’s the bravest woman I’ve ever known.
I kick the table, forcing it around a quarter turn. Her face is toward the roulette wheel now, toward Antonov and the jagged letters:Cane.
Kneeling, my back to the audience, I reach for her right wrist. “You don’t have to do this,” I say close to her ear.
“We’re taking his fucking money,” she vows.
“We don’t need his money.”
“I do.”
She raises her chin to look straight into my eyes. Despite her brave words, I can see she’s afraid. I rest my palm on the crown of her head, as I whisper in her ear. “What’s your color?”
“Green,” she says.
“Promise that’s the truth.” She has to know I’ll protect her. I’ll throw Antonov’s filthy money back in his face. I’ll carry her out of here if I have to, Federov bratva be damned.
“It’s the truth. I promise. I love you.”
My heart twists. “Christ, Kate.”
But she’s made her decision. Now it’s my job to see her safely through to the other side.
“You’re strong enough for this,” I say, brushing my lips against her straining forearm. I reach across the table for her left wrist. “You’re my perfect sub.” I fasten the bond. “I love you too.”
I flex the cane again as I cross to the other end of the table. Kate’s chest presses into the leather. Her silk top has ridden up around her waist, and a dark line of sweat marks the ridge of her spine.
Her bare ass still has a faint mark from the single stroke I gave her two months ago. When I trace it with one finger, she shudders like I’m administering an electric shock. I gentle her with my palm.
Her thighs tremble in terrified anticipation. Her knees are spread to help her balance. I can smell her sex, still ripe from her solo act with the bullet.
I set my feet. I grip the cane. I raise my arm, determined to swipe fast, to land the blow before she has a chance to flinch at its whistle through the air.
I strike.
A red stripe rises immediately, as if her creamy flesh is lit from within. Her thighs tighten so fast I hear a crack from her hips. Her toes curl in agonized reflex, and her wrists jerk against the cuffs so hard I think she’ll break the table.
“Th— Thank you, Master,” she says. Her voice is shaky but the words are clear. “M— May I have another?”
Master. I made Kate call me that once, before I knew Pyotr Tarasov had done the same. I vowed never to make her say the word again.
But she’s here and she’s mine and she’s asking because she knowsIneed that. HerMasteris as good asgreen, even though the crowd is rustling like animals trying to escape a cage.
I land another stroke higher than the first, leaving two fingers of milk between angry streaks of crimson.
This time she bucks. Her fingers tighten into marbled knots, and a screech hisses through her nose.
